The news hits like a crowbar to the skull—heavy, sickening, cracking something open that shouldn’t be touched.
Not just dead. Shot. Gunned down like a fucking animal, sprawled out on the pavement in that stupid striped shirt, blood soaking into the fibers like it belonged there. Like the whole world had been waiting for the day Matt would paint the streets red.
His hands shake, but not in the delicate, trembling way of grief. It’s violent, a spasm running through his bones like his body itself is rejecting the truth. He grips the wheel, but it feels like gripping the edge of the void.
It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel possible.
Matt, who never took things seriously. Who never looked up from his games unless Mello ripped them out of his hands. Who would lean back in his chair with that stupid smirk always holding a goddamned cigarette. Who never let the world sink its claws too deep because he was always on the surface, floating, untouchable. Until today.
Until the bullets tore through all that careless, infuriating ease and left him as just another corpse on the side of the road.
Mello’s grip tightens on the wheel, fingers locking, blood draining. His breathing is shallow, stomach clenched like his insides are being wrung out. He should have planned better. Should have known this was going to happen. Should have—should have—
Mello’s lungs collapse under the weight of it.
He should’ve told Matt to stay back. Should’ve never let him get involved. Should’ve done a thousand fucking things differently because Matt wasn’t supposed to go first.
Mello always knew he’d die young, but Matt—Matt was supposed to outlive him. He was supposed to roll his eyes at Mello’s inevitable self-destruction, supposed to sigh and say, “Knew it.” He was supposed to be the one left standing.
The rage swallows him whole.
Kira. That self-righteous, smug, cowardly bastard. He did this. He signed Matt’s name on a fucking execution order and never even had to look him in the eyes.
Mello is going to kill him.
The thought burns so hot it scorches his insides, turns his blood to lava. He’s going to rip Kira apart. It won’t be enough. It’ll never be enough. But it’s the only thing left to do.
Mello’s vision blurs. His foot eases off the gas for half a second before he forces it back down.
He can’t react, can’t stop. He can’t fucking stop.
Oh, he’ll get his revenge. He has a plan. It’s already in motion. He has Takada. He’s got Kira’s most valuable pawn in his grasp, and soon, Near will know. Kira will know. The world will know. He will fucking feel it.
And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?
Takada shifts in the back. Her breathing is louder, too loud. He wants to scream at her to shut up, to stop existing, because none of this is about her. She’s just another stepping stone, just another goddamn pawn in this rigged, fucked-up game, and Mello is done playing.
He yanks the wheel again, turns down an empty street, mind racing too fast to hold onto. The plan is all muscle memory now—drive, hide the van, force Kira into play. But it’s all hollow, just movements, just steps in a dance that’s already lost its rhythm.
There’s no future beyond this. He doesn’t see it. Can’t even imagine what tomorrow is supposed to look like. His mind doesn’t stretch that far because it doesn’t fucking matter. It never has. Why couldn’t he fucking realize that before? His body is just a weapon now, a ticking bomb in Kira’s path, and he’ll go off whether it makes a difference or not. Whether Near wins or loses. Whether Kira suffers or just keeps playing God.
It’s all the same in the end.
Mello apologizes, but it doesn’t change anything. His own death is a footnote, an afterthought. A forgone conclusion. If it happens tonight, fine. If it happens tomorrow, so be it. It’s not like there’s anything left to lose.
His heart slams against his ribs.
The pain punches through his chest like a fist. His breath catches, sharp, ragged, like barbed wire unraveling in his lungs. Then, it doesn’t come at all. The van swerves. Takada yells something, but it’s distant, muffled, drowned out by the roaring in his skull.
His hands slip from the wheel. His body seizes. The van veers—too much, too fast, metal screaming against the asphalt.
In heavy contrast to the rest of Mello’s whole fucking life, the last thing he thinks about isn’t Kira. It isn’t Near. It isn’t about being the best or proving himself or fucking L.
Matt died like a dog and Mello is following, and it’s all slipping away too fast for any of it to mean anything. He doesn’t even have time to think about the memories, to think about the way he used to look at Matt a little too long, to wonder if Matt knew.
The cold settles in. The sound of the van, of the road, of everything, dulls to nothing.
theartofmadeline
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